Chapter 4

The next day, the door opened and Mark came in. He wasn't alone. He was holding the hands of his two children. The boy, the one who was almost six, and a younger girl.

My stomach clenched. This was a new level of cruelty.

"Say hello to Mr. Hayes, kids," Mark said with a sickeningly sweet smile.

The little girl hid behind his leg, but the boy, Leo, stepped forward. He had Chloe's eyes. He looked me up and down with a programmed disdain.

"My mommy says you're a bad man," the boy said, his voice small but clear. "She says you want to take our house away."

The words were like tiny, sharp pebbles hitting my skin. It wasn't the boy's fault. He was just a mouthpiece for his parents' poison.

"That's not true," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Mark, what is this?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "Get them out of here."

"Chloe thought it would be good for you to see what you're trying to destroy," Mark said, a smirk playing on his lips. "A real family. Something you'll never have."

Leo, emboldened by his father's presence, took another step forward. "Mommy says you were a loser and she was smart to leave you."

Something inside me snapped. Not in a violent way, but in a quiet, final way. I just stared at the boy, and then at Mark.

"You're teaching him to be like you," I said softly.

My quiet intensity seemed to unnerve Leo. He took a step back. I didn't move, didn't raise my voice, but I held his father's gaze.

"He's scared of you," Mark spat, suddenly defensive. He shoved his son behind him. "See what you do?"

He came at me then. It wasn't a real fight. It was a pathetic, clumsy shove. I stumbled back against the coffee table, my self-defense instincts kicking in. I put my hands up to block him.

He tripped over his own feet and went down, making it look far more dramatic than it was.

"He pushed me!" Mark yelled, looking at his son. "You saw it, Leo! He attacked your daddy!"

The boy's eyes went wide. The little girl started to cry.

Mark got to his feet, his face red with rage and humiliation. He wasn't a fighter. He was a coward, and cowards are most dangerous when they feel cornered.

He lunged at me again, and this time he connected, his fist hitting my jaw with a weak thud.

As I staggered back, he grabbed the front of my shirt, his face close to mine. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

"You should have just stayed gone," he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "You have no idea what we went through to clean up this mess. We paid them to get rid of you, not just hold you for a while! It was supposed to be permanent!"

Time stopped.

The world narrowed to his twisted face, his hateful words echoing in my skull.

We paid them to get rid of you.

It wasn't just abandonment. It wasn't just theft.

The kidnapping. The reason for my six years of hell. It was them. They had staged it. They had hired criminals to abduct me and, apparently, to kill me. The plan had only half-worked. My sacrifice wasn't a noble act that saved Chloe. It was me walking right into their trap.

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. The betrayal was so absolute, so monstrous, it was almost impossible to comprehend.

Mark, seeing the look on my face, realized what he'd said. Panic flashed in his eyes. He shoved me hard, and I fell to the floor.

He gathered his crying children. "Let's go, kids. The bad man is crazy."

He herded them out the door. A few minutes later, one of the guards came in. He didn't say a word. He was holding a metal dog bowl.

He set it on the floor in front of me.

Then he took out a carton of leftover pasta salad from a cheap container and dumped it into the bowl.

"The boss said you were hungry," the guard said, his face a blank mask.

He turned and left, locking the door.

I stared at the dog bowl. The pasta, the bits of cheap ham, the oily dressing. My food.

They hadn't just tried to have me murdered. They hadn't just stolen my life. Now they were trying to strip away the last piece of my humanity.

I didn't touch the bowl. I just sat there on the floor, the truth of their betrayal a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs. The hunger was gone, replaced by a cold, silent rage that was absolute.